


Texas Red

by sootandshadow



Series: You Can Leave Your Hat On [1]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dante ruins the sanctity of Vergil's reading chair, Frot, Incest, M/M, PWP, Twincest, Wild West AU, With a touch of the occult
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-28 19:21:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18762841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sootandshadow/pseuds/sootandshadow
Summary: The town is the same as ever, a cheerfully crafted facade of finely built wooden parapets hiding aging buildings and the roughness of the frontier. Ranching was good in these parts at least, and though the railroad had yet to make it this far Red Grave wasn’t the wildest town this far south. It was just normal, in the way that any settlement built on the backs of cattlemen in the dust and the heat could be considered “normal.” Folks here were the friendly, hard-working sort, and certainly didn’t take too kindly to anyone interested in causing trouble. Word on the street was they even had a proper jailhouse now.Perhaps it was better for both Sparda brothers that Vergil returned home a partner in his brother’s bounty hunts and not the target of them.[ An indulgent PWP ft. some Wild West Shenanigans and Dante getting hot when his brother fires his gun. ;D ]





	Texas Red

**Author's Note:**

> What up, I'm christening my A03 account with this bad boy because the folks on the Spardacest server are so gosh darn sweet I can't even stand it. ;w; <3333 Y'all inspire to contribute to this beautiful group, so please accept my humble offering. 
> 
> Special shout out to Cerberus_Brulee for drawing beautiful, beautiful [cowboy Dante art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18713722). Go give that piece some love because unf. -fans self-

After so many weeks on the road, the flat-topped roofs of Red Grave were a welcome sight, and not just for the promise of respite. Dante has been bemoaning the lack of “real food” for the past week and, had Vergil had to listen to his complaints for much longer, he might have been tempted to swiftly and bloodily dissolve their partnership. 

Fortunately for his brother, the trip has worn them all out, though Vergil is loathe to admit it. His legs and his back ache from long hours in the saddle, skin dusty and chafing, and not even the devil’s own blood coursing through his veins is enough to counter this kind of mundane discomfort. Despite his neat and proper appearance, he’s only just managing to maintain his proper posture, back ramrod straight despite his pain. 

A mirror to her master’s moods, Vergil’s favoured hunting partner - the ghostly wolf his father called “Yamato” - stopped ranging quite so far two days ago. Now, she trots silently at his horse’s heels, her fantastic nature the only thing that keeps her from panting like a common hound. Even Cavaliere, Dante’s normally high-spirited stallion, can’t seem to muster up more than the occasional flick of his tail while his rider grumbles half-heartedly on his back, the two of them making a fine, miserable pair.

Vergil, who has long since tuned out his brother, doesn’t notice the change in Dante’s mood until the man’s hand hits his horse’s rump with a resounding _thwack_. His grip on the reins tightens instinctively as his mount flinches beneath him, shying away from the unexpected blow. Blessedly, Vergil’s gelding has incredibly steady nerves, but the action still rankles him. _Fool._ If he wants Vergil’s attention there are better ways to get it than trying to get his brother thrown from his horse. 

He can feel a familiar frown pinching tight around his eyes before the indignity has even settled under his skin, but whatever reprimand Vergil has prepared for his brother is lost in Dante’s resounding whoop of joy. The grin he flashes Vergil is unabashed in its cheek, the prospect of _food_ and _bed_ clearly enough to lift his spirits, and with one hand clutching to his hat he urges Cavaliere forward. 

“C’mon! Race you!”

Cavaliere bucks when Dante spurs him again, and Vergil can hear nothing but his brother’s delighted laughter echoing all the way into Red Grave.

The town is the same as ever, a cheerfully crafted facade of finely built wooden parapets hiding aging buildings and the roughness of the frontier. Ranching was good in these parts at least, and though the railroad had yet to make it this far Red Grave wasn’t the wildest town this far south. It was just normal, in the way that any settlement built on the backs of cattlemen in the dust and the heat could be considered “normal.” Folks here were the friendly, hard-working sort, and certainly didn’t take too kindly to anyone interested in causing trouble. Word on the street was they even had a proper jailhouse now. 

Perhaps it was better for both Sparda brothers that Vergil returned home a partner in his brother’s bounty hunts and not the target of them. 

Their situation is still fresh enough to unsettle Vergil, the sensation not unlike picking a scab and stroking the new, pink skin underneath. He’d been many things in his lifetime; an outlaw, a murderer, a Pinkerton dog, but he hadn’t been his brother’s partner in anything since they’d been boys. Long ago, they’d run wild in the fields around their family home, playing as hunters and gunslingers and lawmen, squabbling like crows at a carcass yet uniting the moment anyone else tried to interfere. Vergil had once thought that their games had been nothing more than juvenile fantasy, the dreams of boys with too much time on their hands and access to far too many sticks. He’d never dreamed that they would one day become his reality. 

Vergil is sure the pair of them make quite the sight, unkempt from their arduous journey and looking as rough as the road they’ve travelled, but Dante clearly has more pressing matters on his mind than public opinion. His brother wastes no time in hitching Cavaliere out front of a now-familiar saloon, beginning the process of unsaddling the stallion as Vergil draws his horse up beside him. The saloon in question is Dante’s base of operations whenever they’re in the neighbourhood, its owner - a man by the name of Morrison - renting him a room on the second floor. While it’s nowhere near as nice as their family home, it’s warm and dry and ensures that when Dante drinks more than he can handle he doesn’t have to stumble very far. All acceptable trade-offs, in Vergil’s eyes. 

Morrison is, no doubt, too busy inside to greet them personally, but Dante’s already found a familiar face, chatting over Cavaliere’s back with Red Grave’s notorious female bounty hunter, known to her friends as “Trish.” Judging by Dante’s boastful tone, they’re swapping stories about their recent successful captures - no doubt over-embellished on his brother’s part - and Vergil ignores their conversation in favour of dealing with his own mount. Of all Dante’s acquaintances - and the man certainly seems to know a lot of people - he can’t find it in himself to dislike Trish. They have a mutual understanding whereby they leave each other alone unless there’s a reason to speak up. It’s nice. Vergil wishes more of Dante’s “friends” could appreciate the value of silence.

He’s about to head inside and leave his brother to his social rounds when Yamato presses close to his leg, the wolf’s disquiet prickling along his skin. It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, fingers instinctively itching for the comforting weight of the Bowie knife on his thigh. He knows this feeling well. Someone is watching them. 

Vergil makes like he intends to join Dante’s conversation, lingering near his brother while his eyes casually scan the dusty streets, searching. While Red Grave is by no means crowded, Dante’s penchant for dramatics and his signature red leather duster make him stand out wherever they go, attracting attention without really trying. Folks can’t help but look at him and, truth be told, Vergil almost doesn’t blame them. Even caked in the mud and filth of the road, his brother is undeniably handsome, captivating in a way that humans cannot help but be drawn to. 

Even so, it should be easy enough to separate the admiring from the curious, to pick apart the nosy from those with ill-intent and-- 

_There._

Vergil sees the man on his second pass. Nondescript, unshaven, with clothes belonging to a man of much larger stature; not the type of man Vergil would have previously given the time of day. He’s doing his best to look nonchalant, smoking his pipe and leaning against the wood-slatted wall of the general store across the street, but his stare keeps returning to Dante like the needle of a compass swinging back to North. That alone is enough to attract Vergil’s attention. The gun he carries at his hip only seals the deal. 

It’s not the first time they’ve been under scrutiny; it’s not even the first time somebody’s followed them while carrying enough lead to drop a horse. The remnants of the demon-worshipping cults Dante targets are always particularly nasty when it comes to revenge, willing to sacrifice even more of their own if it means taking the head of the West’s infamous “devil hunter.” From this distance, it’s difficult for Vergil to know who this man owes his allegiance to, be it a regular outlaw gang or something more sinister, and he doesn’t have the time to test any theories. And, given the man’s choice of weapon, he’s limited in what he can do. Should he strike preemptively? Or wait until the man’s actions warrant self-defense?

In the end, Dante makes the decision for all of them, stepping away from Trish and heading for the doors to the saloon. Their observer’s attention zeroes in on him like a hawk on a field mouse and he pushes himself off the wall, heading in their direction. Vergil knows killer intent as intimately as he knows his own skin, the man’s motives clear even before his hand starts to move for his gun. There’s no time to warn Dante, and even if he could have Vergil is not the type to believe in a peaceful solution. Any man who wore a weapon had to be prepared for the consequences of using it. It was one of the few lessons Sparda had taught them, and one that Vergil had never forgotten. 

So he doesn’t hesitate, barely waits for the man to get into range before he’s stepping into his brother’s space, his fingers sliding effortlessly past the edge of Dante’s leather duster. The cool, firm handle of one of his brother’s pistols is easy to find and easier still to draw, though it’s been many years since Vergil’s used a weapon this fine. Even out of practice as he is, his body remembers, hammer cocked reflexively beneath his thumb, eyes on his target as he squeezes the trigger. 

_Bang!_

It’s not until the man falls to the ground sporting two bullet holes that Vergil realizes Dante has drawn the other pistol, his arm parallel to Vergil’s, back to front with his brother and perfectly in-sync. Apparently he’d been more aware of their threat than Vergil had given him credit for. 

“Jackpo-- _hey!_ Watch it!”

Dante all but squawks when his brother almost carelessly tosses him back the ivory-handled pistol, effectively interrupting his catchphrase as he scrambles to catch it. Though it effectively ruins their moment, it does little to release the tightness in Vergil’s chest, equal parts joyous and aching at their unintentional synchrony. He chooses instead to ignore it the same way he ignores the cries of alarm around them, reaching now for his knife with the intention of ensuring their would-be attacker is dead. 

“You’re here for _five minutes_ , Dante, and you’ve already made a mess,” scolds a feminine voice, equal parts familiar and exasperated, and it’s enough to give Vergil pause. The gunshots have drawn out another one of Dante’s friends, this one with decidedly more local sway than the blonde bounty hunter. While no means physically imposing, the woman folks call “Lady” isn’t shy about demanding respect. True, the silver badge affixed to her chest might have something to do with it, but the citizens of Red Grave have very little to complain about when it comes to their female sheriff. (And any that _do_ have complaints are always welcome to take it up with her Winchester rifle.) 

Despite her complaints, Lady is already calling for a stretcher to move the body, turning her wrath on Dante while she waits. True to form, Dante laughs and whines and plays the victim, all theatrics and crocodile tears, but he presses his body against Vergil’s, now shoulder to shoulder, spine tight. He keeps casting glances across the street, eyes sharp with wariness, and Vergil allows himself to feel a small measure of comfort in his brother’s alertness. It’s been far too long since he’s had the luxury of someone watching his back. It’s been longer still since he’s trusted anyone enough to do so. 

There’s a shout from inside the saloon and Vergil feels Dante shift instantly, slanting his body between his brother’s and the noise, fingers skirting the edges of his hip holsters. The tightness in Vergil’s chest returns with a vengeance at the very thought that Dante is trying to _protect him_ , even if it’s just from rowdy patrons, and he schools his expression against the unexpected swell of warmth tinged with the bitter aftertaste of regret. For all the violence and bloodshed and betrayal between them, Dante still cares about him, still loves him with that foolish, achingly human heart. Vergil may still struggle with the ugliness of his own, but he cannot bring himself to pull away from Dante’s warmth, even as his brother continues his bickering with Lady. 

It’s a testament to how rough they look that Lady lets them both go with only a promise that they won’t skip town. Vergil, however, isn’t about to look this particular gift horse in the mouth. His surge of adrenaline has vanished along with the threat, and his body is keen to remind him of all its aches and pains, tiredness weighing down his very bones. He spares Morrison the briefest of nods as he heads through the man’s saloon, making a beeline towards the stairs behind the bar. To Vergil’s surprise, Dante follows him as doggedly as his canine companion, shouting only a few words over his shoulder at Morrison about “food” and “later” while simultaneously hurrying after his brother. 

Dante barely waits for Vergil to close the door to their shared room behind him before he’s crowding Vergil up against it, curling his fingers into the lapels of Vergil’s vest. Up close, he can see his brother’s pupils are still blown wide, high on their shared kill, and when Dante wets his lips with his tongue Vergil unconsciously tracks the motion. His brother’s intentions are practically palpable, but Vergil cannot resist antagonizing him all the same. 

“I thought you were hungry, Dante,” he taunts, low and haughty, even as his fingers hook in Dante’s belt loops, drawing him closer still. Dante’s lip curls and he catches the glint of his brother’s fangs in the sunlight filtering through the thin curtains. 

“Oh I am.” 

The growled admission is all the warning Vergil gets before Dante’s lips are pressed against his own, insistent, demanding Vergil’s full attention like there is anything else worthy of Vergil’s interest at this moment. His hands abandon their grip on Vergil’s vest to curl around his jaw, thumbs stroking over his cheeks as he presses their bodies together in an effortless roll of his hips. Even through their trousers Vergil can feel the insistent press of Dante’s erection, half-hard and over-eager as always, and the temptation to touch is too much to resist. Dante is _his_ , after all, the coil of possessive glee curls hot in his stomach. 

He wraps one hand firmly around the back of his brother’s neck to hold him steady, delighting in the way the firmness of his grip makes Dante’s breath catch, while his free hand trails down the length of Dante’s chest. Dante arches into the touch, like a cat demanding to be petted, his sigh one of pure, hedonistic pleasure as his kisses turn slower, but no less devouring, tongue curling into Vergil’s mouth. Like this, there is no escaping the force of nature that is Dante, his gravity drawing every molecule of Vergil’s attention to him like it’s a foregone conclusion, as inevitable as the rising of the sun or the changing of the seasons. It takes everything in Vergil’s power not to lose himself, and he loathes it as much as he revels in their shared depravity. 

Into the damp space between their lips Vergil murmurs his brother’s name, a benediction and a curse, and Dante shudders against him with a bitten off sound. Dante has always gotten too invested in kissing, easily consumed by the heady rush of meeting mouths and the slide of tongues, and for once it works to Vergil’s advantage. With Dante’s attention elsewhere, he’s left himself wide open, and with deft fingers Vergil slides his hand further down to grasp Dante’s clothed cock. 

In the middle of drawing Vergil’s bottom lip teasingly between his teeth, Dante’s whole body jerks at the touch, teeth breaking skin as he barely swallows down his groan. The sting of the bite does little to ruin the hot spike of pleasure that lances through Vergil, especially when his brother pulls away to draw a shaky breath. Dante is never not beautiful, but he is all the more exquisite when he bares himself for Vergil, shameless and wanting. When he’s like this there is little that Vergil would deny him, and so he thinks nothing of stroking his palm over the front of Dante’s trousers, delighting in the way his trapped erection twitches at the contact. 

Absently nursing his bitten lip, he meets Dante’s gaze when his brother finally returns his attention to Vergil, then stills his hand as he arches an eyebrow. He sees Dante’s eyes flick to the wounds left behind by his teeth and, judging by his smirk, he’s feeling incredibly pleased with himself. Unabashed in a way that Vergil is decidedly not, Dante doesn’t break eye contact as he rolls his hips against the press of Vergil’s palm, flushed with pleasure and eyes dark with burning intent. Vergil sometimes thinks he likes him the best like this, a predator wearing human skin, a wolf playing in sheep’s clothing. It makes the demon in his blood burn, all the more so when Dante’s thumb swipes at the corner of his mouth. 

“Shouldn’t have grabbed my gun if you wanted me to play nice, _brother_.” 

The wordplay is not lost on Vergil, even if it only makes him scoff, and Dante chuckles at his own cleverness while he presses his mouth against the sharp cut of Vergil’s jaw. Vergil decides to let the quip slide in favour of tightening his hands in the hair at the nape of Dante’s neck, and is rewarded by the press of teeth against his throat. His warning growl only makes Dante laugh, his brother drawing away from him as he hooks his fingers in his brother’s ascot and uses it to try and tug him along. When that only works for a few steps - because Vergil is decidedly not some grandmother-broke gelding -- Dante slots himself behind his brother and needles him that way, persistent. It’s honestly more effort to balk and once Vergil feels he’s resisted enough to maintain his dignity he allows Dante to move him, figuring his brother intends to take him to bed. He is, therefore, only a little surprised when instead he’s ushered into his favourite armchair, Dante’s hand pressing flat against his chest until he settles himself down on the plush seat. Though Vergil has certainly spent a fair amount of time in the comforts of his chair - expanding his mind through literature in a way that Dante has found boring since he was a child - he’d never known Dante to pay it much attention. Clearly he had misjudged his brother’s desires. 

Vergil barely restrains his grunt when Dante deposits himself on his lap with the grace of a drunk buffalo, knees snug on either side of Vergil’s thighs as the chair practically groans beneath their combined weight. “And you wonder why Cavaliere gives you so much grief,” Vergil mutters, even as his fingers are already reaching to push at the shoulders of his brother’s duster. Dante makes a face at him but is quick to get with the program. 

“Why do you even wear this?” He grumbles as he fights with Vergil’s ascot, hands still clumsy with the cloth despite how often his brother wears one. Vergil can’t help but click his tongue at Dante’s roughness, batting his hands away so he can take it off himself before his brother ruins it. Dante, in turn, picks up where Vergil had left off, his red coat hitting the floor behind him. As his fingers pull his ascot free of its confinement, Vergil can’t help but indulge in the tiniest bit of their shared argumentative nature. 

“I don’t know, little brother, why do you insist on wearing such a gaudy coa---mmf!”

His gripe is cut off by Dante’s mouth, his brother swallowing the insult in favour of kissing Vergil quiet. He feels the cloth now draped around his neck being tugged free of his hands and deposited over the side of the chair, fingers briefly stroking at the bare skin of his throat before Dante lets him up for air. 

“Be nice. I saved your life back there.” 

Vergil can feel his eyebrows raising even before the words sink in, Dante’s insolent grin only adding fuel to the fire of his irritation. “He was aiming for you.”

“Mmmm, nope, definitely gunning for you.” 

Dante’s reply is somewhat muffled as he unbuttons his shirt just enough to pull it over his head and tosses it towards the growing pile of their outerwear. Unsurprisingly, the argument has done little to ruin the mood, if the hard line of Dante’s erection pressed up against his own is anything to go by. Even Vergil finds it only moderately distracting, familiarity making the banter flow easily as he forgoes shedding his own clothing in favour of reacquainting himself with the bare skin of Dante’s flanks. 

“How would you know? As I recall it, you weren't even looking in his direction.” 

His brother’s laugh is a little breathless as his hands cover Vergil’s, encouraging them to go lower, demanding more, but his grin is as cocky as ever. “I didn’t have to, I’m just that good--ah _shit_.” 

It’s Vergil’s turn to be smug as Dante’s bravado fails him the moment he gets his brother’s trousers underdone, watching with dark eyes as Dante arches in the touch. His eyelashes flutter prettily when Vergil pulls his cock free, clever fingers teasing at the head until Dante bucks up like a bronco. With his free hand, Vergil presses his palm against Dante’s spine, urging him closer so he can press his lips to his brother’s bared chest, kissing trembling flesh. He knows he has Dante as his mercy like this, shaken by the precision of his brother’s touch and helpless to do more than just _feel_. It’s a heady kind of power trip that Vergil has only just recently come to appreciate and savour like the fine wine that it is.

But Dante has never been content with letting his brother have the upper hand for long, and as he struggles to recentre himself his fingers tangle in the spiky strands of Vergil’s hair. He flexes them when Vergil takes his cock more firmly in hand, moan caught behind his teeth, and Vergil knows Dante can feel the way his lips curl upwards in a smirk against his skin. Dante should know by now that Vergil is peerless when it comes to finding and exploiting weakness, as precise with his hands as he is with his knife. Moreover, his brother’s body is as familiar to him as his own, like two sides of the same coin, and every time they come together like this Vergil learns a little more. He is truly fighting a losing battle.

Still, there’s no accounting for Dante’s mouth, which has a habit of getting away from him even if he’s otherwise occupied. 

Dante’s next shaky inhale is the only warning Vergil gets before his brother is curling over his head, pleasure-roughened voice whispering filthy words straight into his brother’s ear. “Christ, Vergil, you looked so hot with my gun.” The way he shivers is like a shot of pure heat straight to Vergil’s gut and he must make some kind of noise because Dante continues, “Was gonna kiss you right there, make them all jealous, and then drag you upstairs to have my way with you. _Fuck_. Let me--” 

He abandons his grip on Vergil’s hair to shove his hands between them, fumbling with Vergil’s trousers until he can get a grip on his brother’s cock. The combination of Dante’s voice and the hand on his neglected erection make him bite back a groan, teeth clenched against the sound even as Dante shamelessly echoes it. They can’t be too loud, can’t risk the saloon patrons catching wind of what they’re doing, and in that instant Vergil misses camping out something fierce. For all that he keeps a tight rein on himself he enjoys nothing more than hearing Dante fall apart, loves reducing him to a panting, keening mess too pleasure-drunk to do anything more than call his brother’s name. 

Vergil feels a hand return to the nape of his neck as Dante changes his approach, messily kissing his cheeks until Vergil acquiesces to his unspoken request and tips his head. This kiss serves to swallow any errant sounds as they stroke each other, winding their desires higher and higher with every caress until Vergil is dizzy with it all, fingers digging bruises into Dante’s back. Despite everything he cannot help but want _more_ ; more of his brother’s kisses, more of his bare skin, more of his body to lay claim to in the most primal way. He twists his hand on the next upstroke of Dante’s cock and his brother jerks away from their kiss with a hiss of pleasure, eyes wild. 

“Damnit, Vergil, don’t wanna wait, going to just-- can you---”

Without finishing his thought he drags Vergil’s hand to his mouth and licks a broad stripe across his palm. In that instant Vergil knows exactly what he wants, obligingly wraps his hand around the both of them and revels in the first rough slide of their cocks as Dante rolls his hips. It’s maddening and messy and _perfect_ , his grip tightening as rides the swell of pleasure potent enough to make his toes curl in his boots. From there it’s all on Dante as he rides his brother’s lap with wicked intent, hands wrapped around the back of Vergil’s neck to ground him. He’s trying his best to be quiet but every so often a tiny, hungry sound slips out between gasped breaths as he drives them both towards their peak with a single-minded purpose. Vergil cannot take his eyes off of him, greedily drinking in the sight of his brother’s taut form, the slide of sweat down his flushed chest, the damned hat that has somehow managed to stay on this entire time. 

Despite the fact that the hat has featured in numerous cheesy pick-up lines delivered from his brother’s pouting lips, Vergil had always considered himself immune to this particular avenue of his brother’s charm. Now, though, looking at the way it makes his brother look all the more disheveled, he’s starting to reconsider his opinion of it. It would look even better if Dante was riding him for real, back arched like this while he takes Vergil’s cock deep inside him, and the mental image is enough to make Vergil shudder and bite the inside of his cheek. Another time, when his cock doesn’t ache quite so sweetly between his thighs and Dante isn’t hellbent on tainting the sanctity of his reading chair. 

Vergil knows his brother is getting close when Dante gathers him almost unbearably close and buries his face in the damp shoulder of his shirt, Vergil’s name little more than a breathy exhale every time the drag of their cocks sparks new pleasure up his spine. His movements are jerkier now, grinding himself into the tunnel of Vergil’s fingers, chasing his pleasure with a kind of determination that only serves to drag Vergil along for the ride. Vergil’s attention is narrowed to the slide of hot flesh and the catch of skin on his calluses, the tremble of Dante’s thighs and the syrupy pleasure coiling dangerous in his gut. With his last, clear thought he fishes Dante’s handkerchief out of the pocket of his trousers, slipping it between their bodies just as he tenses and he cums into the worn cloth. Dante’s name on Vergil’s lips is all it takes for his brother to moan into the fabric of his shirt and spend himself between them, every movement prolonging Vergil’s own pleasure until it walks the line of too much and too soon, cock twitching against Dante’s own. 

The silence is broken only by their panting breaths, and Vergil takes the opportunity to gently wipe them clean with the dry portions of Dante’s handkerchief. Though it may have solved that particular mess, the cloth will do little to salvage the abuse their remaining clothes have taken, nor the sweat that’s undoubtedly soaked into already filthy fabric. Vergil can feel his shirt sticking to his back from being pressed up tight against the chair, awareness of just how hot and uncomfortable he is coming back in degrees, and the accompanying sensations are incredibly unpleasant. As much as he enjoys his brother’s proximity, it’s high time the two of them separated and _bathed_. 

“Dante,” he starts, and Dante’s answering hum of pleasure is brimming with satisfaction as he stretches his arms above his head, eyes half-lidded and warm now with unbridled affection. Though he would never say it aloud, this particular expression of his brother’s is like looking directly at the sun, equal parts warming and painful, for he cannot bring himself to avert his gaze no matter how much it aches. There was a time when Vergil had thought no one would ever look at him like that. It makes him unbearably possessive, wanting to keep this Dante for nobody but himself, ensure he is the only one who ever gets to see this soft expression. He fiercely stamps down on the urge and leans forward instead for a kiss, determined to simply be satisfied with the way his brother gravitates towards his unspoken desires. 

The unmistakable gurgle of Dante’s empty stomach makes them both freeze, however, and Dante’s expression turns briefly sheepish even as the corners of Vergil’s mouth twitch upwards in the ghost of a rueful smile. 

Ah. It seems Dante’s real hunger can only be ignored for so long.


End file.
